


Fallen

by isthemachinesinging



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:43:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isthemachinesinging/pseuds/isthemachinesinging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha wants to talk about Cas falling, but Ben gets ideas when he's stoned, and he'd rather be doing something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallen

“Is Cas gonna fall?”

Ben looks over at him through narrowed eyes, then looks down at the joint in his hand. He’s comfortably stoned, all loose bones and quiet mind. Contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t have his craziest ideas when he’s high. He has  _terrible_  ideas when he’s high. Such as the one he’s having about Misha right now. But it’s the only thing, really, ever, that calms his brain down, that allows him to relax. Unfortunately, he also tends to get these awful ideas; and when he gets like this they seem to make perfect sense. He exhales slowly.

“I can’t tell you that, you know. Not supposed to talk shop.”

Misha sighs exaggeratedly in reply and tips his beer bottle up against his lips, drinking slowly. He’d turned down a joint, saying he’d never cared for it; a beer was good enough for him. He notices Ben watching him swallow, and he frowns.

“You could tell me. I wouldn’t tell.”

“Of course you would. ‘Sides, what makes you think I’d know?”

“You’re in the writers’ room.”

“Sometimes. Not as much anymore.”

Misha leans back, props his legs on the coffee table. “I’d love it if Cas fell. You know, to be able to explore him becoming human. And have him not just experience the bad, but the good too. Learning about what it is to be human, all of that. Just seems like really rich territory.”

Ben sighs. “I prefer Cas as an angel.”

“Is that an admission that he’s not falling?”

“No, just what I think.” Ben shakes his head. “Y’know, even if Cas does fall—not saying he  _is_ —nature of the show being what it is, he’s probably not going to see much good.”

Misha groans at that, shaking his head. “Just a little bit, that’s all I ask. I mean, the guy could at least get laid.”

“What do you think Cas’ type is?” Ben is looking at him curiously.

“Well…” Misha looks up at the ceiling. “He liked Meg, so, what…demons?”

They both laugh.

“I don’t know, honestly,” he continued seriously. “I hadn’t thought about it as, you know, a serious thing. Just wanted him to hook up with someone.”

“Mmmm.” Ben’s noncommittal.

“So what do you think Cas’ type is?”

“Never really thought about it.”

“Dean?” Misha teases, and shakes his head at Ben’s  _don’t even go there_  look. “Sorry. Can’t talk about it, I know…Maybe another angel? I used to think that he and Anna had been lovers, then the whole virgin thing happened, so I guess that turned out to be wrong. But I still like the thought of that. Meg would have been interesting, too, the angel and demon, all kinds of possibilities there too—“

“Sometimes I really want to kiss you.”

He stops and looks over. Ben is watching him, gaze flickering between his mouth and his eyes. He grins ( _nice joke, Ben_ ) and says, “Didn’t know you liked my thoughts so much.”

“Wasn’t talking about that. I mean it.”

Misha shifts uncomfortably, takes another swallow of his beer. Ben’s still staring at him, blue eyes dark with intensity. He’s not really sure what to say; Ben’s stoned out of his mind, and his filter must be kind of out of whack. Which means two things: he’s probably telling the truth, and he’d never be saying it if he was sober. Misha’s pretty sure he should ignore it, let it go, because Ben’s going to regret saying it later.

“Ben…” He shakes his head, and looks back up at Ben. He’s lost the intense look in his eyes, and a ghost of a smile plays around his lips. Misha’s a bit relieved. Maybe it  _was_  a joke after all. Ben leans toward him conspiratorially.

“You wanna make out?”

Well. If it’s a joke, apparently they haven’t hit the punch line. He sits back, shaking his head. “Ben, you’re…”

“I’m totally stoned, is what I am. I’d never say that if I wasn’t, which is why I am. Stoned.”

“Wait…you—“ Misha’s not sure if he should feel more shocked or offended. Maybe he should feel neither. Or both. “You asked me here…to get high…so you could  _come on_  to me?”

“ _You’re_ not high.  _I_  am.” He giggles.

Misha shakes his head again. He entertains, briefly, the thought of kissing Ben. Maybe he should, just because…just for fun.  _Oh, the hell with it._ He’s gonna call the guy’s bluff. He’s not put off by the idea of a kiss. He reaches over, cups Ben’s face in both of his hands. Ben inhales sharply at that, the smile falling, the intensity back in his eyes. Ben licks his lips. There’s something fiercely wanting in his face, and for a moment Misha almost calls it off; but he isn’t going to be the one to back down. He strokes gently at his cheekbones with his thumbs, and Ben sighs softly. He leans over.

The kiss is hesitant, soft and gentle. Ben’s hand comes up to cradle the back of his head, stroking at his hair. He pulls back a little. Ben’s grinning at him, all languid calm. And when he tugs Misha back, he goes willingly. The second kiss lingers, and when Ben licks at his lips, he goes with it, opening his mouth to him, his own tongue tasting Ben’s. They don’t rush, pulling back when they become breathless, trading a deep kiss for soft, quick kisses. Finally, Ben pulls away with a sigh, kissing his cheek, his ear, nuzzling his way down his neck.

“Ben—“ Misha feels kind of stoned himself, now. Kind of drunk.  _Contact_   _high_ , he thinks, and giggles.

Ben giggles in return, then kisses his neck, licking and then biting gently.

Misha groans, feeling an unexpected spark shiver through his body at that. Ben gasps, pulls away, looks up at him. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s just…I think—that’s enough.”

Ben looks at him regretfully, but nods, leaning back against the couch. He runs his hands over his face, through his hair. “Well, that was pleasant, anyway.”

He doesn’t answer.  _Pleasant, yeah._  He tells himself the twist of desire he’d felt—barely a touch—had just been an automatic response. Didn’t mean he had any interest in…it didn’t mean anything. And it had been nothing, really.

_Absolutely nothing._

He runs his hand over his lips, drying them. He imagines he can still taste Ben, the taste of smoke mixing with the taste of beer in his mouth. He presses his fingers to his mouth, remembering the other man’s mouth against his, beard scratching at his own stubble. No, he doesn’t have any feelings about that; the memory sends no new sparks through him. It had been pleasant, in Ben’s words. That’s all. That’s really all.

_Really._

He looks back over at Ben, who’s splayed back, hands laced behind his head. His shirt’s pulled up, and Misha can see the curve of his belly, the sharp hollow above his hip. He looks away. No reason. Not because he just thought of rucking that shirt the rest of the way up, over Ben’s thin shoulders, over his head, and then—No, he didn’t think of anything like that. Definitely not.

“Ben, I—I think I should go.” He stands, too quickly, and loses his balance, stumbling against the table. Ben laughs, watching him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Fine. Just, just, you know—got up too quick.”

“Not what I mean.” Ben waves a hand. He’s way too fucking calm, Misha thinks. Like they hadn’t just been kissing, for fuck’s sake—what the  _fuck_ were they doing? And Ben’s just there, like it wasn’t anything, like it was a joke, and Misha’s off-balance, everything thrown out of whack, and he doesn’t even know why. “I mean…you’re kind of freaking out.”

“I’m not.” He is.

Ben leans forward, staring at him curiously. “I figured you’d probably…”

“Probably what?”

“Probably done things like this before.” He gestures. “I didn’t think it would be a big deal.”

“I…yeah, no—I don’t—“

Ben looks up at him. He regards him for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice is very quiet. “A joke, if it helps you to think of it that way. I didn’t think there was any harm. If I was wrong, I’m sorry.”

“No. No harm.” He laughs shakily. “I just, um…it just surprised me, that’s all.”

“It surprised me, too.” Ben stands, stretching—shirt pulling up over his belly again, and this time Misha doesn’t resist, steps forward and lays his hand on Ben’s stomach, stroking, bringing his other hand up to settle on his hip. Ben stops, hands fluttering briefly as if unable to decide where to land, and then grips Misha’s shoulders gently.

“Misha—“ His voice is high, strung tight with tension. “What are you…”

Misha doesn’t answer, pulls Ben a little closer, hands moving around to the small of his back. He lingers there for a second, fingers circling, stroking, and moving back around, slipping up under his shirt, stroking, caressing his belly, his chest. He can feel Ben’s heartbeat under his hand, strong and slow, but quickening a little under his ministrations. He looks up. Ben’s watching him, eyes half-closed, tracking the movements of his hands. He catches Misha’s eye, and they stare for a long moment, Misha’s hands still moving restlessly. Then Ben swallows, and Misha finds himself staring at the movement. He grips Ben’s shirt in his fists, pulls him close, and presses his mouth to his throat.

It’s not a kiss. His teeth scrape tender skin, and he hears Ben speak, feels the vibration under his lips. He licks at the skin under his mouth, all heat and salt and thrumming pulse. He doesn’t know what Ben says, but he says it again, and he feels the vibration with his tongue. He groans, sucking at his throat, pulse throbbing against his lips, his tongue. He feels dizzy.

Ben’s shaken, uncertain. He says Misha’s name again, a third time, and this time Misha turns his face away, pressing it into the curve between his neck and shoulder. He draws his arms around him, hesitantly, holds him close. He can feel Misha trembling, just barely, his body just touching Ben’s. He moves his hand, up to Misha’s chin, holding it, caressing the line of his jaw. They look at each other, into each other’s eyes, and after a moment Misha nods, a small nod, and Ben returns the nod. They kiss again, and this time it isn’t pleasant. It’s fierce and rough and wanting.

Misha moans into his mouth, hands coming up to tangle in his hair, holding his head close. When he breaks the kiss, Misha follows his mouth, breath harsh and broken.

“Ben…please…”

He could resist. He should resist. He started this, but he’d really only meant it to be fun; he hadn’t meant for it to go this far, to be this real. And if he doesn’t resist how far is this going to go? He doesn’t want to resist. He kisses him again, and then again. Misha presses against him, his hands moving down to Ben’s shoulders, pressure. He realizes that Misha is trying to push him down onto the couch, to follow him down, their bodies pressed together, rubbing against each other with every movement. He feels the first wave of real, shuddering desire at that, and his breath catches. Misha seems to hear it, understand it, because he pushes hard and Ben feels the couch against his legs, allows himself to half-fall back, Misha following him down.

They hit with a thump, jarred for a moment. Then Misha’s tugging Ben’s shirt up, breath hissing and ragged. Ben raises his arms awkwardly, and Misha pulls the shirt up and off, falling back down to lick and suck his way down Ben’s neck, to his chest, pressing his hands to either side of his ribcage, fingernails scratching lightly. Ben moans, reaches up, and hooks his fingers into the belt-loops of Misha’s jeans. He holds him in place, rocks his own hips up to press their bodies together. Misha gasps, groans, pulling back and up to stare down at Ben, who meets his eyes, smiling, and lifts himself up again.

“Oh—“ Misha bites his lip, then thrusts back against him, lowering his body, pushing Ben back down on the couch. Ben slips his hands out of Misha’s jeans, tugs his shirt up. Misha leans forward to make it easier, balancing himself on his knees. He lifts his arms to pull his shirt off over his head, and sways, nearly losing his balance. Ben laughs at that, and Misha tosses the shirt to the floor and glares down at him. He just reaches up, caressing the now-bared belly, dipping his fingers just under the waistband of his jeans, making Misha shiver and jerk against him in anticipation. Ben settles his hands on Misha’s hips, holding him tightly against his body, then runs them up his sides, his chest, stroking and exploring.

“Ben...” Misha leans down, kisses his shoulder, his collarbone, his neck. He lies full against Ben and kisses his mouth again, kisses his cheek, his ear, and returns to his mouth.  _God._ He realizes suddenly that he’s started rocking his body against Ben’s again, just a bit, just a tease, but it’s good. Then Ben moans, his back arching a little, the sound sudden and loud.

They stop and look at each other, movement stilled for a moment.

_Are we really doing this?_

He looks down at the man underneath him. He has to fight the impulse to rock against him again, rub himself on him. He understands that easily; it’s just sex. He’s turned on and there’s a warm and wanting body against his. Nothing complicated there. But he still isn’t sure how they got to this place; wasn’t it a joke, or something? It doesn’t feel like a joke now; now he wants to rock and thrust against the man beneath him until they both come. The thought of it sends a choking wave of heat through him, and he groans involuntarily.

Ben gasps, and as if that groan represented a mutual decision, he jerks his hips against Misha. This time they both moan. Then Misha feels Ben’s hands scrabbling at the front of his jeans—fuck it feels good—unbuttoning and tugging them down.

“Ben—what—“

“Because I’m uncomfortable as fuck. Better—“ he grunts, wriggling around as he pushes his own jeans down to his knees. “—this way.  _Oh._  Yeah, definitely better.”

Misha doesn’t answer. He’s lost in the rhythm, the movement, the heat of their bodies, the shuddering waves of pleasure. It  _is_  better, it’s good, it’s really fucking good, and fuck they are going to do this, aren’t they? They  _are_  doing it, just gonna grind against each other until they both fucking come, they’re gonna fucking come on each other, oh fuck he’s gonna come so fucking hard, it feels too fucking good.

“Gonna come,” he groans. “Fuck. Gonna come on you, unnnhhh, gonna fucking come so hard—“

“Already?” Ben’s breath catches, almost a laugh, and when Misha looks down at him he’s grinning.

“Not…” He can barely get more than a word or two out at a time, grinding down against Ben to the rhythm of his words. “Not…yet but… _fuck_ …I can…feel it… _oh_ …”

“That _is_  where I thought… _ah_ …thought we were going.” Ben slips his hands up, caressing his back.

Misha bites his lip, pushes his hands against Ben’s shoulders, concentrates. “Thought you said…a joke.”

Ben does laugh at that. “I also told you I wanted…wanted to kiss you.”

“I don’t know if you’ve…uhh…noticed, but I think…mmmm…oh  _fuck_  that’s…think we’re a bit past kissing.”

“Yeah.” Ben’s still all languid calm, and Misha wishes for a second he hadn’t turned down that joint; he’s only had half a beer and he isn’t nearly as mellow as Ben is, damn him. “I should tell you, I wanted to do this, too.”

His hands move down, the fingers of his left hand tugging Misha’s waistband out. Misha, realizing dazedly what he’s trying to do, sits up. He pulls his body slightly away so Ben can slip his right hand down, grip him. He closes his eyes as Ben strokes, once, twice. He’s hesitant, a bit awkward, moving too slowly. He whines and tries to thrust himself through Ben’s fist, but Ben tightens his left hand on his hip, urging him to be still. He obeys, shivering a little. The fucking tease.

“Ben…fuck…you gotta…faster, please…”

Ben watches his hand, observing its pumping movement with an almost detached pleasure. And he does start moving faster, getting familiar with the rhythm. It’s the first time he’s had his hand on a cock that wasn’t his own, and he’s still feeling his way around. Quite literally. His thumb caresses the head on some upstrokes, his index finger pressing and teasing the underside. Misha makes a soft sound at that, a kind of growling moan, and he gasps as his own cock throbs in response. His hand moves faster on Misha’s cock, as if it’s a proxy for his own. Misha starts to rock against him again, thrusting into his fist in counter with his own strokes, and he doesn’t object now. His knuckles rub against his own cock as he strokes, uneven friction that’s both frustratingly little and just enough that he knows it’s going to bring him over the edge. Then Misha moves, balances himself on one hand as he shifts, his hand reaching down between them to grip his cock. He doesn’t start out slow or gentle, strokes hard and fast and rough. Ben almost cries out with the sudden onslaught of sensation, back bowing off the couch, feet scrabbling against the floor.

“Oh, _God_ yes. Fuck.”

Misha’s hand is quick and smooth and strong and oh fuck it feels good. And he knows it too, grinning down at him, and Ben quickens his own hand, a retribution of pleasure. He’s rewarded with a gasping moan from Misha.

“Shit, Ben…”

“Is it good?”

“Fuck…so good. So fucking good…uunnhhh….I’m gonna fucking come. I’m gonna—“

He feels him pulsing under his hand, feels him spurt hot and sticky over his hand, his belly, once, twice, three times. Misha's hand releases his cock, and he moves both hands to Ben’s hips, gripping to keep his balance. He keeps stroking, movement slickened now, and Misha groans, rocking into his hand.

“Gotta stop,” he gasps out finally, and Ben releases him, moving his hand to his own aching cock. The thought that he’s stroking himself with the same hand that was stroking Misha, his hand lubricated with come, sends a powerful arc of pleasure through him. He moans, thrusting himself into his hand.

“Fuck, Misha…so hot…oh fuck so… _mmmm…_ fucking come on me, your fucking come on my cock…so fucking good honey…ahh shit I’m… _ohhh_ …”

Misha watches him, hands stroking his chest, watching him jerk himself, his hand sliding fast and slick. Ben’s stopped trying to speak, words having dissolved into whimpering moans. He leans forward, until Ben’s knuckles are rubbing against his belly and their faces are close. Ben’s eyes are closed, but when Misha grips a fistful of his hair in both hands and kisses him they open wide. He twists his fists in Ben’s hair, pulling, and he’s not quite surprised when this is what sends him over the edge. Ben gasps into his mouth, back arching up to slam their bodies together, and he feels him throbbing and spurting between them. He rides out the wave with him, hands still tangled in his hair, until he feels Ben’s body slowly relax and fall back. He follows him down, lets his own tired body rest against Ben’s, feeling Ben tremble against him. He kisses him again, gently this time, and leans further down to whisper in his ear.

“This is why Cas should fall.”

Ben just laughs. 

 


End file.
